**Taσrgaon. Aristotle, tom. 2, fol. 82. Ed. Du Val. All critics concur in recommending that the curtain should be dropped over the disgusting scenes of the catastrophe. Non tamen intus digna-geri promes in scenam-multaque tolles ex occulis. Hor. Ars. Pœ.

(d) Thalia. Una e Novem musis Comædiæ et Ludicrorum præses a baλ viresco, floreo, exhilaror. Vide 6 Bucol. 2d L. Virg. Delp.

(e) Far fam'd Steed. The fact of Dido's Steed, though raised in Tyre, being of the true Arabian breed, though not noticed by Servius, Gronovius, Ruæus, Heyne, Wakefield, or any other commentator, is now ascertained from the pedigree of the Bussorah Arabian, whose descent is distinctly traced from Bulbulfor that was the name of Dido's steed. Vide an old Arabic manuscript of Mr. Van Ranst, Penes me. (f) Pius Æneas. Virg.

Speluncam eandem, &c. Virg.

For General Brown. As it is supposed the general will be in town about the time, these lines are inserted; if the general, however, should not arrive, any other hero, whose name will rhyme, or nearly so, may be introduced; if not, the following lines may be substituted:

For great De Witt,

In glorious Car does sit.

[Here the governor will rise and bow to the house.] [Loud applause from the front boxes, hisses from the pit and gallery, company sing the chorus ET HO.] (i) Matchless Bigottini. The "prima donna" of the dance at the Parisian Opera. The grace, symmetry, perfection, and agility of her form and movements, appear to have made a desiderating impression on the mind of the poet-who feelingly laments, that his compatriots of Gotham never shall look upon her.

While we were correcting the proof of this communication, our friend, Dr. Mitchill, came in, and, knowing his poetical taste and talents, we submitted it to his supervision. The doctor participated in the enthusiasm with which we were filled, and which will be felt by every reader of taste;-on coming, however, to this passage, he immediately produced from his pocket a letter from the Abbe Hauy, who informs him that, though we must be contented to live without the hope of seeing Bigottini in New-York, yet Mademoiselle Fanny Bias, scarcely her inferior in the divine art, has serious thoughts of making a visit to this country. After giving us this information, the doctor, in a divine fervour, seize

ed the pen and gave vent to his feelings in the follow

ing

IMPROMPTU.

Though Bigottini,
That sweet Genie,

Terpsichore's own daughter,
Will never cross the water,
Yet I am very glad to say,
That, at no distant day,
The fates won't deny us
Miss Fanny Bias.

BURLESQUE ADDRESS

ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW PARK THEATRE, SPOKEN BY MR. OLIFF.*

[Evening Post. New-York.]

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

ENLIGHTEN'D as you are, you all must know
Our play-house was burnt down, sometime ago,
Without insurance. 'Twas a famous blaze,
Fine fun for firemen, but dull sport for plays.
The proudest of our whole dramatic corps
Such warm reception never met before.

It was a woful night for us and ours;

Worse than dry weather to the fields and flowers:
The evening found us gay as summer's lark,
Happy as sturgeons in the Tappan sea;
The morning-like the dove from Noah's ark,
As homeless, houseless, innocent as she.
But-thanks to those, who ever have been known
To love the public interest-when their own;
Thanks to the men of talent and of trade,
Who joy in doing well--when they 're well paid,
Again our fire-worn mansion is rebuilt,
Inside and outside, neatly carv'd and gilt,

With best of paint and canvass, lath and plaster,
The Lord bless Beekman and John Jacob Astor.

As an old coat, from Jennings' patent screw,
Comes out clean-scour'd and brighter than the new;
As an old head in Saunders' patent wig

Looks wiser than when young, and twice as big;
As Mat. Van Beuren, in the Senate Hall,
Repairs the loss we met in Spencer's fall;
As the new constitution will (we 're told)
Be worth, at least, a dozen of the old-

Mr. Oliff is understood to be the lamplighter of the theatre.

So is our new house better than its brother,-
Its roof is painted yellower than the other;
It is is insur'd, at three per cent., 'gainst fire,

And cost three times as much, and is six inches higher.

'Tis not alone the house--the prompter's clothes
Are all quite new-so are the fiddler's bows;
The supernumeraries are newly shav'd,

New drill'd, and all extremely well behav'd-
(They'll each one be allow'd (I stop to mention)
The right of suffrage by the new convention.)
We 've some new thunder, several new plays,.
And a new splendid carpet of green baize.
So that there's nought remains to bid us reach.
The topmost bough of favour--but a speech-
A speech-the prelude to each public meeting,
Whether for morals, charity, or eating!

A speech-the modern mode of winning hearts,
And power, and fame, in politics and arts.

What made the good Monroe our president?
'Twas that through all this blessed land he went
With his immortal cock'd hat and short breeches
Dining wherever ask'd, and making speeches.
What, when Missouri stood on her last legs,
Reviv'd her hopes? The speech of Henry Meigs.
What proves our country learned, wise, and happy?
Mitchill's address to the Phi Beta Kappa.
What has convinc'd the world that we have men,
First with the sword, the chisel, brush, and pen,
Shaming all English authors, men or madams?
The Fourth-of-July speech of Mr. Adams.
Yes-If our managers grow great and rich,

And players prosper let them thank my speech-
And let the name of Oliff proudly go

With Meigs and Adams, Mitchill and Monroe..

PRIZE PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN FOR, AND SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE, IN NEW-YORK, SEPT. 1, 1821. BY MR. CHARLES SPRAGUE, OF BOSTON..

When mitred zeal, in wild, unholy days,

Bared his red arm, and bade the fagot blaze,.

Our patriot sires the pilgrim sail unfurl'd,

And freedom pointed to a rival world.

Where prowled the wolf, and where the hunter rov'd,

Faith rais'd her altars to the God she lov'd;

Toil, linked with art, explor'd each savage wild,

The forest bow'd, the desert bloom'd and smil'd;

Taste rear'd her domes, fair science spread her page,
And wit and genius gather'd round the Stage-
The Stage! where Fancy sits creative queen,
And spreads gay web-work o'er life's mimic scene;
Where young-eyed Wonder comes to feast his sight,
And quaff instruction while he drinks delight--
The Stage! that threads each labyrinth of the soul,
Wakes Laughter's peal, and bids the tear-drop roll!
That hoots at Folly, mocks proud Fashion's slaves,
And brands with Shame the world's vile drove of knaves..

The Child of Genius, catering for the Stage,
Rifles the stores of every clime and age.
He speaks the sepulchre resigns its prey,
And crimson life runs through the sleeping clay;
The wave, the gibbet, and the battle field,
At his command, their festering tenants yield.
Here wisdom's heir, releas'd from death's embrace,
Reads awful lessons to another race;

Pale, bleeding Love comes weeping from the tomb,
That kindred softness may bewail her doom;
Murder's dry bones, recloth'd, desert the dust,
That after times may own his sentence just;
And the mad Tyrant of some mouldering page
Stalks here to warn, who once could curse, an age.

May this fair dome, in classic beauty rear'd,
By Taste be foster'd, and by Worth rever'd.
May chasten'd Wit here bend to Virtue's cause,
Reflect her image and repeat her laws;
And Vice, that slumbers o'er the sacred page,
Hate his own likeness, shadow'd from the Stage.

Here let the Guardian of the drama sit
In righteous judgement o'er the realm of wit.
Not his the shame, with servile pen, to wait
On private friendship, or on private hate;
To flatter fools, or satire's javelin dart,
Tipp'd with a lie, at proud Ambition's heart..
His be the nobler task, to herald forth
Young blushing Merit and neglected Worth ;
To stamp with scorn the prostituted page,
And lash the fool who lisps it from the Stage.

Here shall bright Genius wing his eagle flight,
Rich dew-drops shaking from his plumes of light,
Till, high in mental worlds, from vulgar ken,
He soars, the wonder and the pride of men.
Cold Censure here to decent Mirth shall bow,
And Bigotry unbend his monkish brow;

X

Here Toil shall pause, his ponderous sledge throw by,
And Beauty bless each strain with melting eye;
Grief, too, in fiction lost, shall cease to weep,
And all the world's rude cares be laid to sleep.
Each polish'd scene shall Taste and Truth approve,
And the Stage triumph in the people's love.

NEW-YORK THEATRICALS.

[National Advocate. New-York.]

MR. COLEMAN has, last evening, changed his system of finding fault with ladies' hair and gentlemen's pantaloons, and has referred to a few subjects deserving notice, namely: the excellence of the orchestra, the inconvenience of large bonnets, and the indifference of the box keepers. As to the orchestra, it is really good; it has greatly improved, and is still capable of improvement. The large bonnets are doubly inconvenient; they conceal a pretty face, and hide a pretty actor; they, moreover, excite impertinent curiosity, and induce men to take a peep at every hazard. But I am against the white and coloured turbans, recommended by Mr. Coleman; they are too much in the style of Ali Mustapha: some faces become them, but to the generality of women, they impart a masculine character. Neither do I admire the West-India bandannas; they look too creole, or too much like the Parisian grizettes ; but while on the subject of head-dresses, Mr. Coleman may well ask me, in his usual good natured manner, "sdeath and the devil, sir, what do you like?" Why, the hair, in all its native beauty and glossy softness, turned up with a comb, and ornamented with a white or red rose; neither turban, coal skuttle bennet, nor bandannas, for me. Now, as to the box keepers, it is their duty to say, in a decided but respectful tone, "Sir, that seat is taken, and you must leave it."

The Devil's Bridge, for the twenty-ninth time, attracted an overflowing house; the current of taste and fashion sets naturally and powerfully to that very bridge, which carries managers and actors safe over. Philipps was in fine voice, and in fine spirits, and gave us William Tell in his very best style; for effect it is yet more powerful than "Scots, wha ha." Mrs. Holman, who is